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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25731478">When it rains...</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkinterval/pseuds/darkinterval'>darkinterval</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Shaman King (Anime &amp; Manga)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Action/Adventure, Aged-Up Character(s), Ainu - Freeform, Ainu Culture, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bottom Horokeu, Drama, Japanese Mythology &amp; Folklore, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Power Dynamics, Racism, Rating May Change, Romance, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, There are no shamans, Top Ren, but there are spirits</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 12:21:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>18,106</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25731478</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkinterval/pseuds/darkinterval</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p> “You have a brother.”</p>
  <p>“Eh?”</p>
  <p>Pirika watched, confused, as the stranger tipped the pot and poured himself a cup of tea. A pair of glowing golden eyes stared at her from behind a cloud of steam, and when she blinked, they burned into the insides of her eyelids.</p>
  <p>“The one who made your precious hairband; the one you hold dear,”  he purred and took a delicate sip of his tea. “Tell me about him.”</p>
</blockquote>AU. At his wits’ end and out of a job, Usui Horokeu struggles to survive the wintry months of Tokyo while raising his sister in a city steeped with prejudice. But a chance meeting with a mysterious stranger plunges him into a world of shadows, and as Horokeu discovers the truth about the ikupasuy his parents left behind, he wonders about the burden of being the last Ainu and what happens when it rains...
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tao Ren/Usui Horokeu | "Trey Racer" Horohoro</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. New Year</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>With Shaman King's 20th anniversary and the series remake coming out in 2021, I just HAD to contribute to the fandom in the way I do best: writing. Also, it's Shaman King August, and with the complete digital release of this timeless classic, I'd say the timing of this story's publication is as good as any. I adore the manga as much as I do the anime; Shaman King was my childhood and still my most favourite series up to this day. Not to mention, Ren/Horo was my first ever OTP (still is btw), so this is for all you Thunderstorm shippers out there! So get those umbrellas and raincoats ready, because weather forecast says it's going to be cloudy with a high chance of thunderstorms ;)</p><p>Those who're familiar with my writing style know that I'm a multi-chapter writer, and, more often than not, I plan and plant epic seeds of drama and watch them sprout convoluted plot vines. This fic is an AU, so there will be things that would look unfamiliar to you, but there will also be some things that would pay homage to the original series - like certain character background stories and references.  Everything else though, I'm leaving it up to my creative muse. No shamans here, but you might spot a certain familiar spirit or two in another form. Here's to reviving a fandom of 20 years, just like how Hiroyuki Takei succeeded in reviving my love for this series after all this time.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When the shock wore off and the world came bursting in, he dared to breathe and the reality of his fractured gasps made everything hurt.</p><p>Especially his throat. The despair and dry disappointment felt the worst of all, every shuddering breath a raspy whisper like something barbed and coiled, drawing out an intense discomfort that he stubbornly tried to push away and ignore. A clock ticked in the silent office beneath its searing fluorescent lights; a vacuum of tension and cloying dread, sweltering, despite the ice-cold January snow falling softly outside the window. They melted upon contact, tiny trickles of water crossing each other like spindly fingers on frosted glass. </p><p>If he focused on that, instead of the clawing sensation in his chest, then the anxiety seemed to lessen, his next breath and words – such difficult words – easier by some small, fragile margin. They came out as a quiet whimper after clumsy, desperate tries.</p><p>“You’re… <em>firing</em> me?”</p><p>There was no better way to put it. </p><p>The slow yet gentle brush of a hand on his shoulder was from Mr. Takasugi, and he spoke in a calm, even manner that gave no indication of any guilt he might have felt. “I’m not firing you, Horokeu. I’m letting you go. Japan’s economy has been hit hard and with a reduced budget in the arts and cultural sector, this museum simply doesn’t have the capacity to retain all its staff.”</p><p>‘Which is basically the same thing,’ Usui Horokeu thought bitterly, running his fingers through ice-blue hair, now free from the confines of his usual white headband. He had thrown it on the floor sometime ago in his grief and had not retrieved it since. Truthfully, he wanted to drag himself off the chair, give his (former) boss some choice words and maybe a shoe to the face, and make for the door with his usual confidence and cheer, his persona worn with perfect ease. But, taking another unsteady gasp, that was impossible now.</p><p>Like all managerial staff, Takasugi wore a blazer that was as stiff and hard-pressed as his personality. He had a massive gold-plated badge on the front, his designation listed on it in slanting characters – <em>Head Curator, Tokyo National Museum of Eastern Art &amp; Culture. </em>It was enough to make Horokeu scoff. He wondered how many staff they laid off in order to squeeze one of <em>those</em> into the so-called budget. </p><p>With a resigned sigh, he finally bent over, retrieving his discarded headband and did not miss the way Takasugi angled closer. But the attention was unnecessary. Horokeu yanked the plain white cloth over his forehead and started on the knots, the familiar ritual serving a comfort and temporary distraction from addressing the obvious elephant in the room. Takasugi arched one grey eyebrow and Horokeu’s fingers, numb still, slipped over the fabric.</p><p>“I can tell you have some questions.”</p><p>“... Yeah, I got one.” </p><p>A decisive tug and the pure-white headband was firmly in place, spiky hair pushed back and away from his face, save for a few stubborn strands that fell forward to frame his eyes – a striking and brilliant cerulean with a whirlpool of emotions and a desperation that almost showed through.</p><p>“Why Tomomori and not me?” he began slowly, every syllable like a low ache. “I’ve been a loyal employee for 6 years and I’ve only ever called in sick twice. Sure, I had no real work experience, but whatever I didn’t know, I learned, didn’t I? I pulled all those extra hours without complaint. I’ve read more books and research papers on Asian art and history in the past 3 months, than a university graduate in a year! I work harder than anyone else – you said so yourself!”  </p><p>He bowed just head and the fire died, leaving him with nothing but his kicked pride and the shame of what he was about to say. </p><p>“Please, Takasugi-san, I… I need this job. You know I do.”</p><p>His pleas left only the constant buzz of silence around him, underlaid by the sharp and continuous click of a pen and the awkward clearing of a throat. The head curator was giving his reasons – the words ‘unfortunate’ and ‘unexpected’ sound over and over, his name swapped out for an impersonal ‘Usui' – and Horokeu felt his heart sink further the more Takasugi talked, at the finality of his inevitable termination. Nausea curled in his stomach along with the telltale build-up of tears behind his eyelids, something he needed to deal with now, least he made himself sick and broke down in the man’s office. </p><p>“Horo- <em>Usui</em>,” said Takasugi, regretful, his attempt to word his speech in a delicate manner made obvious by the low and gentle dip in his voice, and Horokeu glanced up at that. He had almost forgotten that the man had kids around his age. “Don’t misunderstand, I do value you; in fact, I’ve never been more proud of the character you’ve become. But Tomomori has a degree with honors in Art History, and 4 years of related experience. You on the other hand, are a 21-year-old high school drop-out, who wandered into this museum 6 years ago with no money and no place in society.” His shoulders lost their usual stiffness, his gaze soft with sympathy. “I’m not saying this to intentionally put you down. But these are the facts and they were reviewed in our year-end employment quota.”</p><p>No, it couldn’t end here. </p><p>“... The Ainu exhibit.”</p><p>“Excuse me?”</p><p>“The Ainu exhibit,” Horokeu pressed, desperate and exasperated, clinging onto what ammunition his past contributions managed to rake up, no matter how futile or insignificant. “All those tomes and parchments, the craftwork and their influences – I was the one who transcribed and translated them. The whole shipment; an entire heritage and its customs; the Ainu <em>life</em> itself – Tomomori can’t do that. <em>Nobody</em> in Tokyo can do that. Nobody in Kanto, Kyushu, Chugoku, Kinki-“</p><p>“Usui-“</p><p>
  <em>“Why don’t I matter?!”</em>
</p><p>The air shuddered. </p><p>The snowflakes that fell and collected on the windowsill were a sharp contrast to the warmth indoors, the clash of temperatures a crackling contour that split the surface of old glass, their vein-like seams and jagged branches reaching out. A sudden gust of cold wind slammed into the window and aggravated the cracks further, sending out tiny shards.</p><p>Horokeu had his fists on polished mahogany, clenched and white at the knuckles, trembling, like the strong facade of a once-hopeful, starry-eyed teen worn down over the years from way too many disappointments, the constant discouragement, and the cracks were starting to show. Something fell out of his front pocket and clattered onto the desk, the brief interruption much welcomed from a close brush against physical assault. Reckless. He fixed his gaze on the object to conceal his embarrassment.</p><p>It was a carved wooden stick, unsuspecting, modest and obviously well-loved with elaborate and intricate designs etched into its surface – symbolic of the owner’s patriarchal lineage; a prayer for protection. The ikupasuy had been in the Usui family for generations, handed down to his grandfather, given to his father and now, it belonged to him. Takasugi’s eyes darted to it and returned his unimpressed gaze to Horokeu. But something had changed and the air pulsed with static. That momentary glance was all he needed to know that there were just some things that never changed, that the head curator’s unease was both a reaction and disposition that he had experienced time and time again, despite how hard he tried to hide who he was. </p><p>“Guess I got my answer.”</p><p>Fuck it, he was tired. </p><p>He snatched the ikupasuy and shoved it in his pocket, just barely missing the offended frown on Takasugi’s face. </p><p>“I’m not firing you because you’re Ainu, Usui.”</p><p>Ah, he finally said it.</p><p>“You’re not,” Horokeu agreed, fixing the curator with jaded, accusatory eyes, “You’re firing me because I’m not good enough.”</p><p>The curator’s shoulders sagged. There was really no more he could say. And he didn’t know which was worse: the man’s utter lack of response, or him not exactly denying it either.</p><p>“I’m very sorry… Horokeu.”</p><p>He wished those words to be true.</p><p>Slowly, like a subdued animal that lost its will to live, the Ainu lowered his fists and head, his light blue hair falling in front of his cerulean eyes like icicles. “This job was everything to me,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else who bothered to listen, “P… Pirika and I hardly make enough to keep a roof over our heads. Our parents left us since we were kids, and… and I’m her brother. How am I supposed to raise…” The back of his eyelids hurt again. He didn’t know rain still fell in the middle of winter. “Takasugi-san, what do I do?”</p><p>He flinched when he felt a hand on his shoulder, but when he looked up and was greeted with an aged, sympathetic smile, Horokeu knew that this particular chapter of his life had come to an end and he had to let go. </p><p>“Someone once said that fate is like a strange, unpopular restaurant filled with odd little waiters who bring you things you never asked for and don’t always like.” Takasugi gave the Ainu one last reassuring clap on the shoulder, but didn’t allow himself to linger, stepping away quickly. “Don’t lose hope. You’re hardworking, resourceful and in your prime. Sometimes opportunity knocks in the most unexpected of times, in the least likely places.”</p><p>The dry chuckle that escaped Horokeu’s mouth was dark and liberating. “Funny you should say that. Pirika works at a <em>ramen</em> bar and their service is shit.” It was sad because the joke wasn’t even funny. “Guess I’ll budget my last pay cheque and treat her to something nice…”</p><p>The curator had nothing more to offer his youngest ever employee, except for a smile. Horokeu only wished it reached his eyes. “I wish you all the best, Horokeu. Oh-“ it was an awkward, nervous pause dancing on tiptoes, “happy new year.”</p><p>“... Thank you, Takasugi-san.” He stopped. He backed up, and his voice was strained and unsteady when he continued. “Happy new year. It was nice working with you.”</p><p>After the door had slammed shut, his feet leading him out the art museum for one final time, the snow continued to fall from the sky like gentle kisses, like someone trying to comfort and embrace him, whispering that everything was going to be fine, even as dark clouds swarmed the deep-grey sky. And Horokeu thought then of how he was going to tell Pirika, a mass of turbulent emotions, a bleak and undetermined future that he dared not face. He clutched his ikupasuy and offered up a silent prayer to the winds. Those thoughts stayed with him still.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>A deep cold had set in.</p><p>Night stole the sun away along with the hours, cheating those who glanced still at their wrist watches out of habit, wandering where the day went. The city outside had darkened, the lights of its towers on in asymmetrical blocks, had more and more going out as time passed. But wintertime was where nightlife reigned supreme, the lonely alleyways scattered around Tokyo coming alive in a steady, deafening roar of music and people; laughter, screams, cries, idle chatter and gossip mingling together like an overture of a grand orchestra, rising and falling to the sporadic tempo of life.</p><p>
  <span>And it was in one of these haunts tucked away by the river, where Usui Pirika stopped to throw open the door of a nameless, decrepit <em>ramen</em> bar, a hurried “I’m here!” shouted into the dim, crowded space, and removed her sneakers to slip into the standard waitress heels. Despite its size and location, the bar was a rowdy meeting point for overworked salary men and strange characters alike. She always paused to marvel at the peculiar atmosphere, the sights and smells mingling in a lazy swirl of tobacco smoke and overlapping sound, feeling oddly displaced in a scene she had acted in over the past year. In a strange place she learned to call home for over six years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tokyo was a city of contradictions: monotonous and colorful; dazzling and full of shadows; obnoxious and conservative; hospitable and unkind. It was as charming as it was terrifying, made harder by an underlying social stigma, a thinly woven grey thread frayed at the edges, close to breaking point. But she had a job to do. It was time to pull her own weight, and tuition didn’t pay itself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Step one was tea, and, throwing on the nearest apron, Pirika strode into the little kitchen, grabbed an old teapot strung with one too many soggy sachets and jabbed at the hot water dispenser. A little too hard apparently, as a drop of hot water landed on her forehead, making her wince and hurriedly wipe it off. Her hand brushed over her fringe, over a thick hairband that held silky, ice-blue locks in place, and she paused. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cut out of quality cream fabric and dutifully hand-stitched with the Ainu symbol for ‘bird’ – Pirika meant beautiful and free – her brother had made this for her shortly after she came of age. Normally, it would’ve been her mother’s job but – well, that was a long time ago. She should probably swap it out for the red service bandanna, but she didn’t want to. It was her favourite. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Missy! Where the hell’s my tea?!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“C-Coming!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A rush of blue-and-pink and the sharp click of heels had Pirika at the customer’s side in a heartbeat, hot tea sloshing in the pot, her hand going straight for the nearest cup like clockwork. But the stares were hard to ignore and her composure, a single leaf against the wind, shook under their scrutiny. It was a group of young punks dressed in a mismatch of casual wear and school uniforms: ties, shirts and blazers thrown on in varying styles and combinations like an afterthought, a game of who could mangle the face of institution, best – and winner gets to pester the part-timer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s old man Fuji get for hiring an immigrant, anyway? Damn girl can’t even keep up,” said the apparent leader of the group, lips curled in a sneer, dark eyes trailing every inch of the young waitress as she moved, lingering. “At least she ain’t a sight for sore eyes. Aren’t ya, ya pretty little thing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Pirika kept her head bowed, refused to bend and let their hateful words and catcalls get to her, remembered she was here to work towards a better future for herself and her brother. “Please enjoy the food.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was normal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oi, look up when someone’s talking to ya!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Coarse fingers grabbed and yanked her chin up hard enough to make her neck hurt. Pirika winced, suppressed a cry in a place that often pretended not to notice, where its people chose ignorance over action, turned a deaf ear to the poor village girl whom no one would miss if she were gone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on, ya stupid Ainu! Open that pretty mouth of yours and speak up!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please-“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, she looked over her shoulder at the chime of the entrance bell. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Against the backdrop of Tokyo’s night sky and midnight waters, stood the imposing silhouette of a man: deep purple hair – so dark, it appeared indiscernibly black – flowed down his back, three distinct spikes pinned up and crowned his head in a fashion that straddled precariously between elegant and unorthodox; broad shoulders made wider by a sleek trench coat procured from some black-label couture designer; an effortless grace to his movements. The stranger stole Pirika’s attention like a kiss in the dark, and she watched the rolling cityscape fall away, a darkness covering him in thin blotted strokes, like those from an ink brush dipped in too much water. Like a fine piece of artwork, the man was incredibly attractive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the one thing that stood out the most were his eyes – gold-slitted, hypnotizing and like a cat’s, seized rather than gave away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once again, the stranger ended up at that corner table by the faded vintage posters on the wall, their edges dog-eared and frayed, yellowed from clouds of tobacco and too much oil in the air. He had draped his coat over the chair next to him, and he wore a suit the same shade of black as the last time and the same leather boots with the clipped heels, the laces done up impeccably. He picked up the old laminated menu like he always did, gold eyes darting about the items but never really reading, and Pirika already knew what he was going to order before he even put it down: a pot of hot tea and a plate of <em>gyoza</em> – steamed, six pieces lined in a neat row.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was the same thing every night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where ya think you’re going, Missy?” One of the boys tugged Pirika over, his fingers a death grip around her thin wrist, dragged her up when she tried to escape and laughed when a small cry of distress passed her lips. “Hah! Not a bad sound either.” He then dragged her back to the table and another guy pulled off her hairband. “But we’re not done with you yet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pirika reached out feebly, bottom lip trembling, struggling to find words. “Give it back!” But her hand was slapped away, her body pushed and pulled, tousled around like a cruel game of hot potato. And still, no one came to intervene; people seemed to talk louder, each table increasingly engrossed in their own conversations, patronizing grins stretched uncomfortably thin on faces that all started to lose their shape and features, indistinguishable shadows with deceitful eyes and painted smiles that reached out to her from the corners of her consciousness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why were people like this?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Give it back! Please!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fingers digging into her forearm were her own, the pressure almost too much, yet nothing compared to the festering ache in her heart. Around her, the boys had gathered, their sneers and simpering laughter something she tried to brush off. This was normal. Her brother told her to be brave. But he had also warned her to hide her symbols in a land that would never welcome or remember them. That the one thing that made them who they were and the pride they felt, was no longer-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone threw her hairband on the ground and stomped on it, and Pirika’s world shattered from her screams.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“</span>
    <span>Onii-chan made that! Stop it! </span>
    <b>Stop it!”</b>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She had no idea what happened then, because the next thing she saw was the group leader’s body sailing past her and straight through the bar’s rice paper doors, ripped an ugly hole down the middle, the jagged edges of paper a facsimile of broken glass and splinters that intended to harm but didn’t. Predictably, the others got mad and it didn’t take long for fists and insults to start flying. But their attacker was a lot faster, experienced; moved with the speed and lucidity of a passing shadow as they dodged, countered and anticipated every move and punch thrown, struck hard and fast with calculated force and precision behind each blow. Like the first guy, the remaining members laid sprawled on their backs, the top halves of their bodies hanging outside the <em>ramen</em> bar on the damp street, eyes wide in a daze, their brains struggling to catch up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What the fuck just happened?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The leader was the first to rise and he stumbled to his feet fast enough that everything tilted, the chairs and tables in sharp diagonals. The stranger stood in front of him, harsh angles of black and purple, golden gaze narrowed in silent warning, a hand tucked casually in his pocket. Not a single wrinkle or article of his suit out of place, while the bar entrance had certainly seen better days. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>“Leave.”</em>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t a request.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The punks had already run off down the street, and Pirika, stuck processing the situation, made a series of violent hand gestures, her lips flapping helplessly like a fish. They accomplished nothing and she felt more than heard the silence grow around her, the patrons and kitchen staff just as stunned as she was, the head chef and owner more astonished than upset. Nobody asked who was going to pay for the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How did you…?” Blinking fast, Pirika turned on the stranger, who had stooped down to retrieve the fallen hairband, dusting it off with the back of his fingers with the utmost care as if it were immeasurably valuable. Golden eyes swept over the embroidery, before the man held it out to its original owner, expectant, a single eyebrow raised when the young waitress failed to move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly remembering her manners, Pirika blushed and accepted the hairband graciously, took her time to put it back on, movements nervous and a tad jerky. “T-Thank you, sir,” she breathed, each word a soft flutter of feathers, “for helping me-“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was waiting for 10 minutes and you’re the only waitress in this godforsaken establishment,” the man interrupted and turned his back to her as he made for his table in slow, measured strides, the sharp clip-clipping of his heels reverberating off the floorboards. He glared at the nervous patrons as he passed and it didn’t take long for them to get the message, the droll chatter of the night once again filling up the small space, the previous incident forgotten. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulled out a chair and sat down. “Now, my order.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, just a minute!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pirika popped into the kitchen and when she returned, a plate of steamed<em> gyoza</em> sat in one hand, while a pot of tea was clutched in the other. Neatly, she set the items on the table and flipped over a clean cup to place it between the tea pot and her nighttime regular. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Six pieces of steamed <em>gyoza</em> all in a row and a pot of hot green tea – just the way you like it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The stranger folded his arms, mildly amused. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why do you always come here?” Pirika couldn’t help but ask, startled by her own forwardness, but too late to take it back. And for the second time that night, the stranger surprised her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you believe me if I said I like the food?” he answered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her frown was skeptical. “Would you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose not,” he ended with a deep chuckle, and Pirika relaxed in his presence. There was a feeling of trust and ease, despite them not knowing each other’s name; two entirely different people brought together in this common space where noise and shadows met. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In Tokyo, people often pretended to be kind, but really weren’t. This man clothed himself in secrets and silence and chilling hostility, but was the only person who showed her kindness. It wasn’t her place to hope, but Pirika wished that he would keep coming back – at least until the allure of whatever drew him here, faded away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their gazes met, and something flashed in his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re Ainu,” he remarked, matter-of-fact. Those words carried a greater weight than they intended.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A tense silence. Then, Pirika pulled out a chair and sat facing him, hands crossed over one another, her body angled towards him, and the stranger frowned at the determined look in her ice-blue eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Those guys never leave me alone. Others too, sometimes,” she began, but paused when her companion let out a particularly nasty scoff.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Silence, too, is not a pardon for culpability.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.” The smile on Pirika’s lips was a sad one, but it didn’t diminish the fire in her eyes. “Still, thank you. There must be some way I could repay you… I-I could get your dinner-“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That won’t be necessary.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But-“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have a brother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pirika watched, confused, as the stranger tipped the pot and poured himself a cup of tea. A pair of glowing golden eyes stared at her from behind a cloud of steam, and when she blinked, they burned into the insides of her eyelids.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The one who made your precious hairband; the one you hold dear,”  he purred and took a delicate sip of his tea. “Tell me about him.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>To be continued...</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>1) Ren's appearance is based off his adult design in Shaman King Flowers and Shaman King Red Crimson (both of which are good manga, please go and read them!). He's 20 years old, and we all know he's Ren in this chapter, even if he's just a stranger right now. Also, Ren eats gyoza because it's the closest thing to dumplings and he's too proud to give up his Chinese culture and bloody assimilate.</p><p>2) Horo's design is a sort of soft, boyish in-between of the original Shaman King series and Shaman King Red Crimson – pretty in an exotic way and rough around the edges. Despite his tough situation, he's still a carefree and upbeat personality at heart, so I wanted to keep that vibrant energy and ‘shonen’ vibe. He's 21 years old and obviously doesn't look or act the part. Horo dropped out of high school because according to the manga, he had an academic score of 25% and acted pretty proud of it lol.</p><p>3) Pirika's design hasn't deviated much from the original series, only aged-up a bit to fit her current status as a college student. She's adorable, sweet, I love her - and there hasn't been many fanfics that give her a strong role or feature her deep bond with her brother. This is my attempt at rectifying this. </p><p>If you like my story or just wish to support me, comments and kudos are always welcome! I love to hear what others think, and I'm always game to partake in the Shaman King love. Specifically Horokeu love. If you can't tell by now, that boy is my absolute favourite.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Letter</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Given that he had just woken up on the floor of their one-room apartment just beyond the front door, Horokeu had no sense of the time. The sky said night, but the nagging, bubbling energy under his skin said morning – or it could simply be the pain from sleeping over the front step finally catching up on him. Maybe wandering aimlessly around the city until two a.m. hadn’t been one of his brightest ideas, the glistening lights of <em>Kabukichō</em> and garish billboards that sought to hire for shady trade, beckoning him; but he still didn’t know how to break the news of his retrenchment to Pirika, and his heart felt as lost as he had been on the tangled streets.</p><p>Horokeu suppressed a groan and pushed himself off the cold, hard floor. If he left quietly, pretended he had work, maybe he could avoid his sister on her way to school and any compromising questions–</p><p>A pink parka fell from his shoulders and his heart missed an entire rotation.</p><p>“Onii-chan…?”</p><p>Ah, fuck, it was Saturday.</p><p>The younger Ainu, with a small cardboard box in her arms and clearly missing her jacket, gazed down at her brother silently, confusion and visible concern threadbare in every twitch of her body, every flicker of her blue eyes. A hand itched to touch his cheek, but Pirika forced the impulse down before she lifted a finger. She could tell her brother needed space, that he didn’t want to talk, that he had been purposely avoiding her since his shift ended the previous day, that something was very wrong. They were siblings; bound by irrevocable loss and hardship, unconditional love and an intimacy that finished each other’s sentences and needs. Her brother was always one step ahead of whatever she didn’t realise she wanted, and she knew him a lot better than he would ever grow to know himself. </p><p>“Onii-chan,” she tried again, gently, ignoring the goosebumps on her skin from the early morning chill, “why didn’t you come home?”</p><p>Eyes so much like her own flickered with uncertainty. They darted between the pink parka on the floor and the box in her hands. Pirika waited. </p><p>“Wha – he cleared his throat – What’s with the box?”</p><p>“Why aren’t you at the museum?” she countered.</p><p>“Since when are you up before sunrise?”</p><p>“Quit answering my question with a question, then defending yourself with a question!” She frowned, annoyed. “What’s wrong?”</p><p>Horokeu chuckled and shook his head, but the teasing grin never quite reached his eyes. “Geez, Pirika… When did you start sounding like mom?”</p><p>That was the trigger. </p><p>The older Ainu never once broached the subject of their parents, something he could never stop blaming himself for the past 10 years. The memory alone brought with it a crippling pain – deep lacerations rubbed raw from rage and self-loathing – and Pirika couldn’t understand it; she had been too young. But her brother was breaking, coming apart at the seams, and they needed to stop. The frown on her face softened into a tender smile. </p><p>“Come to bed.”</p><p>And Horokeu took his sister’s hand without protest and allowed himself to be led to the modest futon they shared at the corner of the room. They laid side by side, covers pulled up to their chins, Pirika’s chest pressed up against the warmth of Horokeu’s back as they cuddled to conserve body heat. Snow continued to fall outside their one window, cocooned the dark world in a soft white – and it was there where the two siblings lay together, curled close and legs entwined, when Horokeu whispered his confession and bared his soul to the wintry sky.</p><p>“I lost my job.”</p><p>A small nose nuzzled the back of his neck in encouragement, breaths soft like kisses, and his sister’s kindness broke the final layer of resolve his tortured psyche had worked so hard to erect. If his trembling shoulders weren’t a dead giveaway, then his tears were. They fell like thin streams on his cold face, stubbornly pushing through the cracks of a glacier, concealed the raging torrent beneath. </p><p>He was an emotional mess. That job had been their main source of income for a solid six years and whatever didn’t go to rent or essential supplies, went straight to Pirika’s college fees. His sister dreamed of becoming a physiotherapist; he wanted to support her and that stage of his education had been closed off to him a long time ago. Whatever she earned at that part-time job was hers to keep and spend. He refused to take a single yen. He had enough to get them by – at least, he thought he had, but in hindsight, their daily struggles were pocket miracles. Pirika had started school a year late and was dealing with the social consequences, he was going nowhere in his job and the rent at their little red-light district apartment had gone up more times than his increment. </p><p>And still, he felt like he should’ve tried harder, worked harder. He was her brother and he vowed to care and provide for Pirika – no matter what it took – but the vulgar billboards at <em>Kabukichō</em> that he had turned away from in disgust, flashed through his mind, and Horokeu felt like a failure for being too weak to forego his own pride. </p><p>It was a painful change, and he could feel what little control he had slip away with each passing hour – like grains of sand through parted fingers. In the past, work kept him on his feet for twelve hours straight, the mundane task of standing around and giving visitors the same tour with the same explanations of the same artifacts, a monotonous constant. Now, he didn’t have anything to shake the memory of his parents away, of his mother’s screams and his father’s large hands as they pushed him off the cliff, the thundering roar of white snow and an endless blue sky the last thing he saw as he fell with his baby sister clutched protectively in his arms. Nature’s wrath swallowed his parents whole, and the darkness of those thoughts surrounded him like the rushing abyss of the mountain side. They clung in tightly, like talons piercing skin. They tested his composure. They ran dark. </p><p>“Onii-chan, are you alright?”</p><p>“Yeah… I’m okay,” he whispered, and he repeated that. “I’m okay. It’s okay. Trust me.”</p><p>It was not fucking okay.</p><p>His mind was blank, smoldered by the same never-ending white that took their parents and entire village away. The next time his fingers twitched beneath the covers, Pirika’s hand, ghosting over his peaked knuckles, laced their fingers together. And suddenly, like sunlight peeking through the clouds, his sister had succeeded in conquering the phantoms that haunted him, extinguished his loneliness with hope like the break of dawn. So he held on tighter, reminded once again why and how much he loved her.</p><p>For her, he would try again.</p><p>“So… you didn’t tell me what’s in the box,” Horokeu’s voice, hoarse from crying, cut through the silence. Behind him, he felt Pirika shrug. </p><p>“Just some stuff I made for mom and dad. Some offerings,” she replied offhand, then poked him. “You didn’t forget, did you? Today’s their death anniversary and I was going to pray for them at <em>Hanazono</em> shrine.”</p><p>“Huh? Why not make them their own shrine?”  he suggested, only to receive a snort and playful smack on the back for his troubles. “What? You could! Just get some rocks and sticks – dad would love those.”</p><p>Pirika rolled her eyes and turned away. “Yeah, right. And get complaints for being an ‘ignorant foreigner’ and public nuisance. No thank you.”</p><p>Horokeu chuckled; he could practically hear her pouting into the pillow. “Not at <em>Hanazono</em>, silly. That squatter space is nothing but a tourist trap.” He propped his head on his arms and paused for the punchline, a slow easy grin curled at the corners of his lips. “I was thinking… Hokkaido.”</p><p>“Heh?”</p><p>Pirika rolled over to face him just as he sat up. Horokeu dug into his jeans pocket and produced a pair of express train tickets. The <em>Shinkansen</em> was <em>expensive</em> and Pirika was no idiot: her brother’s monthly salary had never been enough to tempt him to splurge like that, which meant that these were purchased from a large fraction of his final pay cheque. But why? He could’ve saved that, used it for their overdue rent, stock up on better food, pay for some hot water or even get a heater; instead, her brother thought it would be a great idea to go vacationing in the coldest region of Japan in the middle of bloody winter. ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid’, she thought to herself, and yet –</p><p>“I think… mom and dad would love it there.”</p><p>“Ah. They would.”</p><p>There was a genuine smile on Pirika’s face as she thought about their homeland, of the vast mountains covered in lush forests, rushing rivers, endless fields and nothing but the light of a million stars watching over them as they slept; lulled by the waves of a distant coast and the cool air from snowy peaks. It had been years since she last walked through the Fuki fields that surrounded their village and she would give anything just to see and experience it again.</p><p>“Hey, Pirika. We could pitch a tent and camp out in the woods, maybe cook outdoors, go hiking…” Horokeu’s eyes lit up. “I could even teach you how to fish!”</p><p>“Really?!”</p><p>“Don’t see why not! I seriously doubt Lake Akan got up and left in the last 10 years…”</p><p>Pirika squealed and flung her arms around him. “I love you, onii-chan!”</p><p>And that was why he wanted to surprise her, because for just that little spark of happiness, Horokeu would give her the world.</p><p>Before the Ainu could even return the embrace, much less pat himself on the back for being the best brother in the world, Pirika yanked him to his feet and proceeded to violently drag him around the room. Which was a feat in itself, considering the apartment was the size of two parking lots put together in a square. </p><p>“Oi, Pirika! What are you doing?!”</p><p>“There’s no time, onii-chan! We need to start packing now!”</p><p>“Ow- yeah but, what’s the hurry? <em>Ow. </em> Our train only leaves next week- <em> <b>OW… </b> </em> <strong>Pirika</strong> <strong>! </strong>Why do you have so much stuff?! Why are you <em>packing </em>so much stuff?!”</p><p>“Because you don’t pack enough!”</p><p>“Look, my good old hoodie’s fine. Your parka and leg warmers are fine. All we need is a tent and– <em>where did that fishing net come from? </em>Are you some barbarian? No wonder guys don’t want to date you-”</p><p>“Onii-chan, you’re the worst!”</p><p>And just like that, it was almost too easy to fall into those old routines, those old patterns formed back when they shared a bed in a small hut in their village, fought over grilled mackerel with worn chopsticks and enough teasing and insults to earn him a five-hour fishing trip shivering in a t-shirt courtesy of his father as punishment, whining about it, but doing it anyway, because he loved his sister too much to hate her for it. Back when the rush of water from a nearby waterfall would wake him up more than the sunlight did, than the screech of his alarm now, and Pirika, a familiar presence at his side, would always hug his arm too tight and carry that mellow smell of dew from the Fuki fields into their home. </p><p>Back then, the snow had spread out to the horizon, the sky above it merged with the mountains and distinct waterfalls of the same clear blue.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Usui Horokeu smiled like he was a model for a toothpaste commercial, laughed at things that weren’t meant to be funny and even louder when they were, and, on more than one occasion – according to his sister – had gotten thrown out of convenience stores because he stood at the <em>manga</em> rack too long trying to decide which JUMP title to buy, bothered unsuspecting customers about it, then yelled at them for their shitty opinions. </p><p>Horokeu also looked too cheerful for someone who led such a hard life. </p><p>The stranger stared at the photograph, contemplative, and ran a finger over the wide curve of that megawatt smile, the motion continuing as the silence between him and his new nightly companion stretched on and on. It had been two days since he saved the Ainu girl and asked about her brother, 24 hours since he learned about their upcoming vacation to Hokkaido, and approximately 15 minutes from the moment he heard about Horokeu’s relentless job interviews. And still, he was learning more and more about the displaced city boy from the North, his interest piqued, spoiled by the rolling information stored in the recesses of his mind under lock and key, bound by secrecy known only to him, uttered in the dark. Usui Horokeu was like a good book he couldn’t put down; the more pages he uncovered, the greater his fascination swelled.</p><p>“You can keep that if you want,” said Pirika with a knowing smile, chin propped on her hand as she watched golden eyes widen by just a fraction. “Onii-chan took a ton of those yesterday for his resume. I doubt he’d miss one.”</p><p>The stranger raised an eyebrow. “And you’re fine by this?”</p><p>She shrugged. “At least you won’t have to keep asking me how he looks like.”</p><p>“... I’ve done no such thing.”</p><p>“No, you haven’t,” Pirika agreed, a finger going up to twirl a lock of blue hair, “but you’ve wondered about his hair, his eyes, if he prefers to snowboard or read <em>manga</em>, or if he’s the type girls and guys would want to date – which, by the way, I still don’t know yet.” She tugged her finger and the strand uncoiled with a slight spring. There was a triumphant gleam in her eyes. “Tell me if I’m wrong.”</p><p>The stranger matched her smirk with one of his own and bit the end of a gyoza with his teeth. “It appears my confidence had a few too many holes in it.”</p><p>Pirika laughed, but just as quickly, she stopped to observe the dark haired gentleman before her, eyes narrowed, a thoughtful purse of her lips. It made him uncomfortable enough to stop eating and put down his chopsticks. Not like the food was anything to brag about anyway.</p><p>“You’re staring,” he pointed out.</p><p>“You know, I think you’re my brother’s type,” she bulldozed her way through, oblivious to the stranger’s growing confusion and very disturbed frown. “Onii-chan’s favourite characters are always the cool, dark and driven types with a tragic family history, whose actions tend to inspire a deep moral analysis and the examination of the human ego– Oh, and they kick ass too.”</p><p>“And you think I’m the stuff from fiction,” the man summed up and to anyone else, the clear offense in his tone would have hit them like a knife to the chest. </p><p>Pirika ignored his blatant antagonism. “Well, you give off the same vibe – like Lulu from Code Goose and Jester from Personality 5.”  </p><p>More silence, though this time, it was on the stranger, the strain and utter ludicrousy of this conversation doing weird, undesirable things to his blood pressure, tested his patience. Inwardly, he was cringing; both brother and sister were insufferable children, but this was the hand he was dealt and principles dictated he followed through. </p><p>The thoughtful, guttural hum that interrupted his musings was from Pirika. </p><p>“Um, I know this is some sort of weird payment plan for saving me and all, but– why… <em> Why </em> are you so interested in my brother?” She hesitated, and her expression fell so fast it was almost comical. “He doesn’t owe you money, does he?”</p><p>The sly grin on the stranger’s lips did little to alleviate her concern. “And what would you do if he did?” But the dark, nervous whisper of <em> ‘yamikin’ </em>from Pirika’s mouth only made his eyes roll. “Trust me, I have little use for money, more so if it comes from someone who can hardly afford to purchase more than one trashy piece of pop literature per month.” He dropped the cynicism for a benign stare at the girl’s embarrassment. “You should have more faith in a man like your brother.”</p><p>Pirika blinked; the surprise on her face was evident. But before she could question his motives, the gentleman retrieved a piece of paper from within his trench coat and slid it across the table. He leaned back and sipped his tea the same time she took the paper and unfolded it to reveal a picture. The Ainu’s guard spiked the moment she realised what it was.</p><p>This would be a sensitive subject.</p><p>“Do you know what this is?” He decided to start slow, ease the girl into casual conversation, spoke lowly beneath the clamor of Monday night’s dinner crowd. It was a private exchange meant for their ears only, one that would cease to exist once the final drop of tea was spent. “I can understand your hesitation, but I won’t tolerate lies. As an Ainu, I expect this to be easy for you, Pirika.”</p><p>Pirika stared at him, suspicious yet unflinching, all previous humor gone and replaced with a sudden air of solemnity. Tentatively, she ran her fingers over the picture’s glossy finish and traced the outline of the black-and-white murky object with a pointed tip, unable to clearly see its exact detail, yet familiar enough with its shape and tell-tale patterns to recognize it at a single glance. After all, she saw it everyday since the accident. </p><p>“It’s onii-chan’s <em> ikupasuy </em> ,” she finally replied. “It’s a prayer stick and sort of a good luck charm that we Ainu use as a form of protection. The men of the tribe carve them out of wood and engrave different patterns on them according to their lineage and clan, influenced by the <em> Kamuy </em> that bless our families.”</p><p>“... <em> Kamuy? </em>”</p><p>“Um… I guess you can think of them as spirits? But we believe they possess ‘holy powers’, so they’re more of divine beings in a sense.” She drew the stranger’s attention to the markings on the <em> ikupasuy </em> with a finger. “These are what we call <em> Sermaka Omare </em> – designs that symbolize spiritual protection against the elements, physical danger and harmful spirits. Onii-chan’s <em> sermaka omare </em> are mainly made up of <em> ara-morew-sikiri </em> – she traced a single spiral – <em> ay-us-sikiri – </em> she pointed at two thorn patterns at the ends – and you see these markings at the center that look like flowing water? They symbolize the <em> kamuy </em> that watched over our tribe – Waku-ush Kamuy, benevolent goddess of water; or if you’re familiar with <em>Shintō</em> religion, the Spirit of rain and snow.”</p><p>“‘Watched over your tribe’?” he repeated, not missing the girl’s obvious use of past tense.</p><p>“... They died from a terrible avalanche, every single one.” Darkness reached out and clung onto her, glazed over her eyes, and the chilling sensation under her skin was from a deep loss too tragic to ever forget. “Onii-chan protected me. We’re all that’s left.”</p><p>Another silence, and the stranger turned his gaze to the blurred cityscape outside the window, the sharp rigid angles of high-rises, the blotted specks of light that dotted the darkness and washed out the stars, across a narrow inky river framed by trees. Around them, the endless stream of chatter continued – harsh laughter and the sound of crackling oil making their eardrums ring, echoing in tandem with each passing second. He poured himself another cup of tea.</p><p>“You’re not good at comforting people, are you?”</p><p>The stranger snorted. “Did you honestly expect that from me?”</p><p>“Point taken,” Pirika replied with an airy laugh, cheerful enough to mask her sadness. “Ah… somehow we always end up back at onii-chan, don’t we?”</p><p>“That’s the whole point.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Business,” he said, and slammed the cup on the table a little too hard, the rich, dark liquid sloshing over the side. The audacity of this girl. “I ask the questions, you answer – those were the terms of our agreement.”</p><p>“Yeah, but now you sound like a hitman,” Pirika muttered, pouting, and the stranger leaned back into his seat with two fingers working on the sudden tension between his eyebrows. <em> This </em>was why he hated dealing with teenagers. </p><p>“Sir, please understand… I love my brother, so-“ A pair of blue eyes sought his gaze, pleading, but most of all, a deep-seeded curiosity shrouded with concern. And he felt himself give in. “If you aren’t a loan shark, or a friend, or with the police, then… who are you?”</p><p>The man uncrossed his legs with a sigh and leaned in, dark purple hair following his movements as he laced his fingers together. “I’m an art collector,” he replied simply, and he could see the gears in the Ainu’s head turning, each section unlocking with an almost sharp, definite click. Golden eyes stared, unblinking to gauge the girl’s reaction.</p><p>“Art… collector?” Pirika repeated slowly, tested the foreign term on her tongue, baffled all the same. That was… completely unexpected. “You mean you’re like those donors who turn their homes into giant art houses and loan part of their collection to museums and galleries? “</p><p>Not to mention the fact that these people were ridiculously affluent and had the power to literally make or break an artist’s worth, as well as influence the value of any particular artwork and their place in history. </p><p>“That’s one aspect of the trade, I suppose-” </p><p>“Onii-chan told me about them before. He said they like to throw money in your face and act like they know <em>so much</em> about art, but half the time really don’t, and have at least 10 sticks up their ass at any given time. Although,” she added, while the stranger stopped himself from replying with something particularly scathing, something <em>stupid, </em>“you don’t seem to be like that at all. Maybe only two sticks at most, but who’s counting?”</p><p>He stared at her for a long time. </p><p>Then, finally-</p><p>“Your brother’s an idiot.”</p><p>Outside, barren trees swayed with the passing wind, their branches arched like fingers, splitting like spilled ink through web-like cracks on thin ice. He watched them while drinking his tea in silence, like a critic evaluating a silent film in black and white. Perhaps if he wanted the Usuis to trust him, he needed to give them a reason to, give a little more.</p><p>“Allow me to eliminate your misconceptions of my profession,” he began his explanation with the practiced voice and conduct of a professional businessman. “Generally, the art market is divided into three distinct sections: the primary, secondary and tertiary market. The primary market deals with collectors who focus on discovering new or unknown artists, and then networking them with potential dealers. The secondary market consists of collectors working in conjunction with dealers to buy and sell their artworks. The tertiary market is mainly involved in auctions and have a strong influence on the art market overall, because of their capacity to impact it in function of their artistic choices.”</p><p>“You mean… you get to decide what the <em>global</em> trend is based on what you <em>like</em>? Like creating your own fashion line?”</p><p>The stranger laughed to himself. “If comparing it to branded clothing line helps you put things into perspective, then fine… But it’s not just the latest trends and what’s popular or not. Trends impact artistic worth, monetary value; shape the competitive field of investment and ultimately, influences factors that make a historical piece priceless and a contemporary piece a significant part of human history. My family are big players in the tertiary market, and own the biggest art collection in China.”</p><p>Pirika’s jaw dropped, but recovered quickly and cleared her throat. “S-So that means… What you’re saying is, onii-chan’s <em>ikupasuy</em>…” It wasn’t hard for her to put two and two together, and Pirika didn’t know which was crazier: this bizarre turn of events, or the very man sitting in front of her.</p><p>“It’s as you think.” With a practiced motion, the stranger reached into his pocket, pulling out a business card to offer Pirika between two fingers. The girl felt her next breath catch when she glimpsed at a large Chinese Yin and Yang symbol with spikes on the front, the name ‘<em>Tao Ren</em>’ printed in sharp yet elegant strokes under it. “We don’t create art, but create value. Believe it or not, your brother’s good luck charm in particular is a highly sought after artifact in the eyes of the recent artistic elite. Acquiring it would immediately legitimize one’s status – and I fully intend to keep the Tao family ahead of the competition.”</p><p>“I… I see,” she forced out, flinching at the stranger- <em> no, </em>at Tao Ren’s sudden smile, the shadows giving the corners of his lips a sinister quality, his eyes gleaming and piercing like claws, digging in, unrelenting. “But I don’t think onii-chan will give up the one thing our parents left behind. Not even for all the money in the world.” </p><p>Pirika’s gaze was soft and full of sentiment, the business card finding its way back to its original owner. “As much as he grew up loving manga and despising Ainu tradition, he would never abandon the hopes and memories of the people who raised him. Onii-chan suffers because of who he is, and he suffers because of who he is not. It’s ambivalent, but the <em>ikupasuy</em> reminds him of that pain and it’s the only real thing he can hold onto when there’s nothing left.”</p><p>She watched Tao Ren’s smile fall, presumably out of disappointment, but was caught off guard when laughter filled her ears instead; harsh, callous and mocking – like she had just told the biggest joke in the world and she didn’t know what it was.</p><p>“I’m not trying to buy your brother’s <em>ikupasuy</em>, Pirika.” Golden eyes narrowed in excitement. “What I want is his service and loyalty; after all, owning that <em>ikupasuy</em> is meaningless without the Ainu it’s tied to.” He flipped his empty cup face-down on the table and folded his arms. “I intend to win him over.”</p><p>Pirika’s eyebrows arched so high, they disappeared under her hair, the extent of the Tao’s confidence utterly inconceivable; but even she couldn’t stop the cheeky grin from creeping up her lips. </p><p>“And how do you plan to do that? Onii-chan hates snobs and the person who fired him is a curator in an art museum. The odds aren’t exactly in your favor.”</p><p>The spark of challenge never left his eyes. “Then I suppose I’ll have to earn his trust.”</p><p>He reached down into a smooth briefcase and produced a thick manila envelope bound by a piece of string, the name ‘<em> <b>Usui Horokeu</b> </em>’ written in neat, black cursive on the front, each stroke a purposeful, measured scratch of ink against paper. He held it out to Pirika, who took it with an inquisitive obedience that he expected her to.</p><p>“See that this gets to your brother tonight. There should be more than enough to cover the month’s rent and all living expenses. I doubt he’d decline my generosity when he’s got nothing in his pockets– well, except maybe his pride and some loose change,” he said with a chuckle, rising from his seat, a dramatic swish of his trench coat as he turned to walk away, a smirk on his face. “Tell Horokeu his new master will be waiting.”</p><p>Even as the door slid close and Tao Ren was long gone, Pirika stared at the package in her hands, the weight of it lighter than the knowledge of what she was about to do. She hoped her brother liked surprises. </p><p>That thought stayed with her even as she hung up her apron and made the silent trek home under the falling snow. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“I’m home!”</p><p>The apartment door swung close with a soft click, the latch slid into place and Horokeu toed off his sneakers, old and worn through at the soles, the ends of its laces split and taped shut. The next were his socks, hurriedly pulled off and tossed to a corner of a modest pile of clothing due for laundry down the next street. They didn’t own much to go through a week’s worth of outfits, but – well, he’d get to those later. </p><p>“Pirika?”</p><p>His sister was huddled on her side of their futon, dressed for bed and back turned towards him. She appeared to be fiddling with something and normally, the exceedingly limited privacy in their one-room apartment would have stopped him from prying; but it wasn’t like Pirika to get distracted, more so in their small quiet space for two.</p><p>“Pirika,” he repeated, bridged the gap and this time, she finally acknowledged him, long blue hair whipping around, head tilted in an earnest, adoring smile. “Ah, onii-chan! How was your day? Any luck with those interviews?” It was almost enough to convince him. Almost. </p><p>“Nah, everyone’s looking for a degree nowadays,” he sighed and laid down on his back, hands behind his head, “but I ain’t giving up yet.”  The cracks on the ceiling ran long and deep, branched out above their heads and reached for the open window. Horokeu counted thirteen. </p><p>“You’re not your usual self… something happen at work?”</p><p>Pirika shook her head. “Not exactly. Just tired. And… and I’ve been thinking.”</p><p>“Oh wow, amazing – don’t let me stop you there, doc.”</p><p>“Onii-chan, I’m serious!” she pouted while he cackled to himself. Of all the times to be annoying, her brother just had to pick this one. But she ignored his childishness and finished with a solemn, “I was thinking of using my savings for the rent this month.”</p><p>A sudden burst of wind entered the apartment, carried with it the screeches and low rumbles of cars below, the faint buzz of nightlife slipping between the frosty currents and only seemed to grow louder. They threw Horokeu’s bangs into his eyes, and when his mirth fell into a deep silence, the air around them grew heavy, stilled from tension. Pirika stayed as she was, cross-legged, the tips of her fingers gliding, then threading through her brother’s soft yet curiously defiant hair, tenderly brushed his bangs away. But the gesture, instead of bringing comfort and reassurance, made Horokeu’s frown deepen, large cerulean eyes void of its usual light, until finally-</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“But onii-chan-“</p><p>“I said no, Pirika.” And in a bid to hide his hurt and anger, he brought his elbows close and turned his body away. They were not having this discussion. It was the same conversation six years ago, and his stand would be the same for as long as he could help it.</p><p>“Focus on your studies and get that degree. You know it’s going to be worse for the both of us if we start taking loans from the bank.” At Pirika’s quiet sigh, he sat back up and turned to face her, cross-legged as well, ruffled her hair and flashed her his trademark grin – the one that never failed to light up any room and made her feel like she could overcome anything. “Thanks, Pirika, but I got this. Even if I have to attend 50 interviews in a day and comb through all the convenience stores in this country, I’ll get that job and we’ll be back on track in no time!”</p><p>“But I wanna help!”</p><p>He knew she was pouting. He didn’t need to look to see that, and Horokeu laughed at her innocence and sincerity. Pirika was a good sister. He was a helluva lucky guy. </p><p>“You wanna help, huh?” He turned around and motioned at his back. “Then you can start by giving your brother a massage with those ‘miracle fingers’ of yours. I’ve been waiting and sitting in chairs all day and it’s fucking freezing outside!”</p><p>“Hey, I’m a physiotherapist, <em>not</em> a masseuse!”</p><p>“Good for you. I’m in pain, and that’s universal.”</p><p>“Onii-chan!”</p><p>The next few minutes had brother and sister rolling around on the futon laughing, Pirika with her arms around her brother’s neck in a playful headlock from behind, while Horokeu had his own arms wrapped around her shoulders. They shook from an uncontrollable fit of giggles, her face buried in the crook of his neck, and he couldn’t help but wish for things to stay this way forever. But Pirika was a woman and soon enough, would find someone who could take better care and provide for her more than he ever could. He only hoped she wouldn’t forget him. But the future was an unpredictable thing, and so he held on tight to these precious memories, these fleeting moments that fell and vanished like rain. </p><p>“<em>Ahhh</em>… now my back feels worse,” he grumbled and rubbed it with a fist. “So much for those ‘miracle fingers’...”</p><p>Pirika stuck out her tongue at him. “You’re just old.”</p><p>“I’m only two years older than you! Where’s your respect?”</p><p>“Hah, so you <em>do</em> admit you’re old!”</p><p>The noise that escaped Horokeu’s throat sounded like a child who had a foot stuck in their mouth, and then had rolled head-first into a wall because they forgot about it and tried to walk. Pirika giggled at his exasperation, but when she caught a glimpse of the older Ainu’s tired, sunken face and the frostbite creeping up his exposed ankles, her face turned grim and her anxious heart thrummed with worry once more.</p><p>“Our rent’s due in two days, and we still got last month’s debt to pay up.” She bit her lip, watched as the wind ran through her brother’s bangs, scattering them. The eyes on her own were bright and carefree, their shadows skillfully contained. “We’ll be kicked out before our trip and… And this place is already the cheapest we could find. Where will we go once we’re back in Tokyo? Where will we live?”</p><p>“We’ll come back here,” he snapped, squaring his shoulders stubbornly, cerulean eyes catching his sister’s unsure stare. “Nothing’s going to happen. I’m going to find a new job in the next two days, convince our landlord to let me off this one last time, and use the remainder of my pay cheque and new salary to clear off all our debts. If I keep this up, I’ll be able to catch up to what I owe. Eventually. I just need a little more time…” Horokeu lowered his gaze to his lap, stared at his hands that were clenched into tight fists, shaking. “Just a little more time…”</p><p>A little more time. </p><p>There were only so many times he could lie to himself, before he stopped believing in it. The more he repeated those words, the less comforting they sounded and the greater his despair and desperation grew. The truth of the matter was this: he didn’t have a job because no one would hire him, much less pick up his resume; and those who did, took one look at his name and feigned regret for their lack of capacity. His age. His orphan status. His lack of education. His lack of experience. That it was fucking winter and he still didn’t know what the hell that was supposed to mean. It was one sorry excuse after another. And even if by some miracle he got hired, he would always be in debt, always running to try and catch up, failing and falling behind because he had run the soles of his shoes thin and the skin of his feet raw. </p><p>A hand fell upon his, fair and soft with a gentleness he knew all too well. His sister rubbed soothing circles on the back of his palm, across knuckles, smoothed out the tension and slowly, but ever so surely, coaxed Horokeu’s eyes on her own. The smile was meek, gaze patient and understanding, asked and offered without words. So he turned his palm up and gripped her hand tight, knowing there was strength beneath the softness, that it was safe and ok to be vulnerable because Pirika would never let him fall. </p><p>“I… I don’t know what to do, Pirika,” he whispered in the dark, his quiet desperation their painful little secret. “For once, your big brother doesn’t have the answers. Then again, between you and me, you were always the smart one.”</p><p>“But you’re the heart,” she encouraged in turn. “You just need a little help.”</p><p>He shook his head. “Yeah, right. Who the hell would want to help a lost cause like me?”</p><p>“Actually…”</p><p>And that was the secret. Horokeu watched as Pirika reached into her pillow case, hesitated for a split second, then pulled out and handed him a pristine envelope with his name on it.</p><p>“I kinda know someone who does.”</p><p>The temperature dipped and someone slid the window shut, save for a small crack for the winds to pass through. When Pirika began some story about a mysterious stranger who saved her from a group of rowdy teenagers, Horokeu frowned and leaned in curiously, arms folded over one another, an index finger tapping the side of his elbow, his bouncing knee a nervous tick. His jaw dropped and an excited gasp escaped his lips when Pirika described the ease and inhuman dexterity of the man as he overcame and disposed of his opponents, the kicks and punches effortless and second nature to him, the fight lasting no more than two minutes. By then, Horokeu, completely absorbed in his sister’s tale, had his pillow propped on the wall and settled against it, his sister's own pillow clutched in his arms as he learned more about this supposed art collector’s less than humble origins and biting personality, struggled to understand why someone so important and self-important would personally make the trip from China just for a worthless, unassuming prayer stick that had inevitably fallen into his lap. </p><p>Of course, the whole thing sounded incredibly bogus and ripped straight out of a crassly written manga plot line. A poor Ainu boy down on his luck and cash meets a wealthy businessman with an offer to change his life. An old family heirloom suddenly becomes his ticket out of poverty. And it goes without saying that the guy with the crazy martial arts skills and indisputable good looks, who saved a young lady from a bunch of thugs by handing them their own asses, was the hero in the end. </p><p>But it had to be real, considering the very fat envelope held out for him to take, the dark letters of his own name written by a hand he did not know, the dead serious expression on Pirika’s face that seemed to say, “It’s up to you.”</p><p>And when Horokeu’s brain finally caught up to his actions, he already had the envelope in his hands and was carefully peeling off the wax seal. </p><p>The first thing he noticed was the weight, its source made clear the moment he tipped the envelope and a pair of jade bangles fell out, landing on the bedding with a soft ‘thump’. Curiously, he picked each one up and inspected them carefully, noted the distinct difference in their coloration and clarity: while one possessed a deep, luxurious shade of green that shone and stole the limelight of any glittering emerald, the other had a subtle bluish tint to it – like a veil of slow-moving clouds reflected on the water’s surface. Years of working at a museum immediately clued him in on the jewelry’s worth; jade, especially imperial and blue jade, was not only ridiculously expensive, but highly valued in the Chinese market for its purity and rarity – and here he had two very perfect examples sitting innocently in the palm of his hand. </p><p>Something else tumbled out after the bangles; a pair of cards labeled and printed in cursive font – <em> Certificate of Authenticity </em>. He went through each one with frantic eyes, his pulse quickening and breaths shallow the more he read up on the gem’s statistics, and nearly ripped the paper down the middle when he saw their approximate market value. That was… a lot of numbers. Each. </p><p>“You’re joking…”</p><p>Who the hell <em>was</em> this guy?</p><p>“Onii-chan... you don’t think…”  But she didn’t need to finish her sentence, the awe and trepidation in her eyes said it all. When the Chinese had mentioned that there would be more than enough to tide them over for the month (and very possibly the next few as well), he really wasn’t bragging.</p><p>The second thing was a letter; and while Pirika took her time to admire the beautiful bangles and did a mental breakdown of their current finances, Horokeu unfolded the piece of paper with shaky hands, his utter disbelief outweighed only by a deep apprehension of what he was about to learn. However, the moment he read the first words so diligently penned down by hand, he felt the butterflies and his heart held its breath as he found himself unable to stop. </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong> <em> My dearest Horokeu, </em> </strong>
</p><p><em> You don't know who I am, but you will in time. I’ve been made aware of your dire financial situation; it is most unprecedented you should face unemployment during the current economic downturn, more so for someone of your standing. As such, I’ve provided fundings that should sufficiently clear all outstanding debts.<br/>
<br/>
</em> <em>These bangles are from my personal collection. Do with them as you see fit.</em></p><p>
  <em> Why do I choose to help you? Well, would a master abandon his dog, that which he took in and sheltered from the cold? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Your sister has shared a great deal about you, and I believe I’m intrigued. For an orphaned village boy from the North with nothing to his name, you sure have a knack for capturing my attention. But that’s besides the point: you hold something of great importance and I would like to discuss an arrangement.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Should you agree to my request, you may relay your answer to the address written on the back of this envelope. I await your favorable response with bated breath. We’ll be in touch.  </em>
</p><p><em><strong> Yours sincerely,</strong><br/>
</em> <strong><em> Tao Ren </em></strong></p><p><br/>
“Tao… Ren,” he read the name, this time aloud, tested how the foreign syllables sounded and played on his tongue. But no matter how many times he repeated it, it always left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. “Well, that’s a shit name to give your baby.”</p><p>Pirika cleared her throat. “What’re you going to do?” </p><p>Her expectant stare drilled holes into his skull. It made him sigh, knowing what he was about to walk into, but not necessarily liking it. As far as creeps went, this Tao Ren guy was its poster boy. Even if he did have impeccable timing and a whole lot of class. </p><p>“Frankly, I’m not too hot on a guy who thinks he can own a person by putting a leash on them,” he replied, both irritated and insulted. “I’m not a dog, and the last thing I’ll do is roll over and call this complete asshole my master.”</p><p>It was infuriating. Why did everyone nowadays seem to think that they could buy relationships and loyalty with money? </p><p>He didn’t miss the disappointment on his sister’s face.</p><p>“But for some damn reason, you trust him. So I’ll play along for now.”</p><p>Horokeu spoke quietly, a slight tilt of his head as he watched the flashing lights of <em>Kabukichō</em> reflected on the window’s glass. Something flickered in his eyes. Something tense and cryptic. But it was gone the moment he turned his gaze to Pirika, his hand reaching out to grab the first jade bangle – emerald-green – and stuffed it into the front pocket of his hoodie. </p><p>“I’m going to the pawn shop, see what’s the most I can get for this. Hopefully old Asakura’s boys are around tonight...”</p><p>Pirika gaped. “Now?! But it’s midnight!”</p><p>“The faster I do this, the quicker we find a buyer. Besides, those two screwballs are always up doing some weird shit with the old stock. It’s probably why their dad sticks them with inventory all the time.” He chuckled and leaned in to give her a kiss on the forehead. “Don’t wait up for me.”</p><p>As Horokeu shut the apartment door and descended the building stairs two at a time, he tuned the world out, focused on the cool weight of the jade bangle as it burned through the fabric, marked his skin. He thought about the letter and the man who wrote it, debated his next course of action, and imagined what Tao Ren’s voice sounded like – low, sensual and deeply enchanting; the kind that lured you into darkness, made you feel like you could listen forever – and Horokeu felt the hammer-beat of his own heart. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> To be continued... </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And so, Ren finally has a name and I can stop referring to him as 'the stranger' lol. Also, surprise! The Asakura twins have a part to play in this story too, but you'll have to stick around to find out what their roles are. Bet you didn't see them coming, did ya? </p><p>Oh yeah - I had to Code Goose and Personality 5, because Fukuyama Jun and Joker's name is Ren too. </p><p>I did quite a deal of research for this chapter about Ainu culture and let me tell you, it wasn't easy to dig up consistent information on a dying tradition. If i got the terminology wrong for the woven patterns and symbols, as well as the Kamuy they pay worship to, please excuse me. Most of the information available is severely lacking and whatever research papers I could find on the subject of Ainu were in Japanese and had to be loosely translated through google translate, and then run through my head to make grammatical sense of it. Obviously, not the best option, but it gets the job done. Also, since this is an AU, I took the liberty of making 'Spirit of Rain' an inflection of the Ainu goddess of water. In no way is this canon, but merely a plot device for the story. Furthermore, since shamans and shaman fights don't exist in this universe, I decided to introduce 'Spirit of Rain' using the medium of Japanese folklore instead. </p><p>Quick glossary:<br/>Yamikin - illegal money-lenders a.k.a loan sharks<br/>Kamuy/kamui - can be loosely translated to deities or holy spirits<br/>Shinkansen - bullet train </p><p>If you like my story so far, please leave a kudos and/or comment! Every little bit of encouragement, no matter how small, goes a long way.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Gilded Cage</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The gifts kept coming.</p><p>Day after day, Horokeu came back to a new parcel waiting on his doorstep, each one varying in size and weight, yet its contents remained consistent in both expense and worth. Rich textiles, exotic sculptures, priceless ceramics and beautifully crafted jewelry – more than what he would ever need or use in his entire lifetime, all meticulously bundled befitting their value and charm, delivered without fuss or a soul in sight. </p><p>The only indication he got of his elusive sender were the letters: every single one addressed to him alone, the words written in the hand he now recognized as Tao Ren’s, sealed with dark devotion and a promise for more. Each letter ended with a courteous request for acknowledgement, to communicate, to meet; and each time, Horokeu found himself hesitating, unsure of the consequences, because giving in would be akin to striking a bargain with a demon, wouldn’t it? Money didn’t just fall from the sky. There was no such thing as a free meal in this world.</p><p>Yet, the curiosity persisted like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch, and Horokeu ended up becoming that which he feared: a stalker of his stalker, lingering behind closed doors and paper-thin walls; a silent, inconsequential specter from dusk till dawn. However, no matter how long he stayed up and waited, eyes trained on his doorstep and ears sharp to the slightest sounds, he never once caught sight of his nightly phantom. And each morning at first light, a new package sat in wait, silently mocking him, as if it had been there right before his eyes this whole time. </p><p>On Thursday, he almost had it, but ended up falling asleep 10 minutes to daybreak and woke up to a parcel on his lap and a note on his forehead that read, ‘Nice try’. Seething, Horokeu stuffed the note into his mouth in frustration, only to remember paper wasn’t exactly edible and spat it back out. </p><p>Today, he succeeded; but had turned his head for five seconds to address something his sister said from inside the house, and when he turned back, he was greeted with an exquisite and elaborate kimono of pure white and glittering gold ornaments neatly folded in a pile. The robe flowed onto the floor when he unfolded it, like mist from snowy mountains, and as he took in the elegant embroidery of his <em> sermaka omare </em>, each thorn and spiral stitched and replicated perfectly along the collar (ice blue and beautiful like his hair and eyes, at least according to the letter), the Ainu touched them with a gentle reverence and couldn’t even be mad. </p><p>
  <em> Well played, Tao Ren. </em>
</p><p>Nevertheless, the gifts earned him a steady flow of yen by the hundred thousands – more than enough for him and Pirika to live comfortably without fear of being in the red. They were able to pay off their rent and debts to their landlord before the deadline; Pirika could finally start a proper study loan plan and quit her part-time job to focus on her studies; and the remainder was carefully allocated into household necessities and future payments broken up into months. But their recent luck and acquisition of wealth didn’t leave the Usuis complacent: Horokeu continued his relentless search for a stable full time job, while Pirika began sourcing local hospitals and specialist centres for internships between assignments. </p><p>Fortune didn’t favour them there though, and being Ainu certainly didn’t help – but that wasn’t new. What <em>was</em> new, was the heightened pace in which he would go through interviews to be rejected, sometimes before he even walked through the doors. Horokeu couldn’t so much as utter his first name, before he got booted out the premises, the nervous energy evident in their eyes and body language enough to make him suspect something akin to fear. But that was stupid, wasn’t it? He barely knew these people, just as much as they didn’t know he existed.</p><p>Which led him back here. To a certain pawn shop in a certain alley of <em> Kabukichō </em> , owned by a strange and affluent family from the west, and run by their even stranger pair of twin sons. Horokeu didn’t know about them much, except for the rumors: the brothers were from <em> Izumo </em>and hailed from the main family of the Asakura clan – an old name with a deep ancestry that had its roots firmly planted in Japan’s history and sphere of influence. A combination of old money and modern enterprise ensured the Asakuras had their fingers in everything. A pawn shop in Tokyo’s seedy red light district was nothing more than a delightful hobby to pass the time and trade off some loose change, swap contacts and information. </p><p>Of course, rumors often had the tendency to inflate the truth and Horokeu was never one to bother with the details. All he knew from his short time frequenting the place was that the Asakura twins came to Tokyo to learn how to run a business, and that they were in fact, very bad at it.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Hey, Horohoro! You know, between you and me, I think Ani’s fortune-telling is getting better. Yesterday, he predicted you’d come today – and here you are!”</p><p>Horokeu dug the base of his palms into his eyes with a sigh. And people thought <em>he</em> was slow.</p><p>“Yoh… I come here everyday. That doesn’t make Hao a genius, but the both of you morons.”</p><p>“Eh?! That’s cold,”  Asakura Yoh squawked, and he brushed his single braid aside, the mid-length brown hair swaying ever so slightly, before settling still against his back. The young man cocked his head and his <em> magatama </em>earrings followed his movements; their tips knocked against the hard plastic of his headphones and created little tapping noises in the cluttered shop space. </p><p>“And here I thought you were beginning to like us…”</p><p>“Your brother thought I was an *<em>Ao-andon </em>and tried to send me back to the other world with his crap ouija board, while <em>you</em> tied me to a chair, unless you forgot about that,” Horokeu replied, shrugging. “Kinda hard to like someone after that. Then again, your short-cutting methods saved me and Pirika from getting evicted, so it’s kinda hard to dislike you guys too.”</p><p>Yoh made a face and the sound that left his mouth, Horokeu thought, was the longest, laziest “Hawww” he had ever heard in his life. If there was a prime example of a slacker, it was Asakura Yoh. The guy was so relaxed, he made a rock look productive in comparison. How he was so adept with tools and construction was beyond him. </p><p>“It’s not a crap board, Horohoro,” the brunette argued, and grinned at the baffled expression on the younger one’s face. “I helped Ani make it out of the finest materials in our back room: a lady’s handbag, old records and a shoe.”</p><p>“You mean other people’s stuff,” Horokeu felt inclined to point out, blatantly ignoring the part about the shoe.</p><p>“Uh… yeah? But they sold it to us, so that makes it our stuff.”</p><p>“Stuff you could be selling. Rare and expensive stuff. For profit.”</p><p>“Why would we need to do that?”</p><p>Horokeu almost threw one of those very ‘stuff’ lying around at Yoh’s thick head. </p><p>“For the business your old man’s making you run? So that it’s successful? So that your family can lead an easy life? Really, I could go on.”</p><p>“Ohhh… good point.”</p><p>Dear god, he hoped Tao Ren never found out what became of his valuable collection. </p><p>“Anyway, I wasn’t the one who thought it was a good idea to light a hundred candles and swap ghost stories with his brother in the middle of the night, then mistaken a customer for a <em> yokai </em>,” he continued with a pout, Yoh already reaching behind his head to rub it with a wide, sheepish grin.</p><p>“My bad, but can you blame me? It’s not my fault your hair’s blue.”</p><p>Horokeu felt a vein in his head throb. “It’s not my fault my hair’s blue either!”</p><p>“Hey, Horohoro?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Why <em> is </em>your hair blue?”</p><p>
  <em>“THE HELL IF I KNOW!”</em>
</p><p>Because Yoh laughed, Horokeu decided that the fault was entirely on karma; that there was a god somewhere up there that was howling over a tasteless package they had sent and more than anything, he wanted to mail it back with no return address. At least the older twin wasn’t here. For now. </p><p>“So, how much can I get for this fancy kimono?”</p><p>He unfolded the garment and held it up to Yoh’s face, watched as dark eyes the colour of warm copper trailed lazily over the fine silk and satin weaves, paused at the thick obi embroidered with silver and blue thread, the Ainu patterns a telling motif of the entire ensemble. The layers seemed endless, flowed like waves, the overall design a delicate balance of strength and beauty. Gold ornaments adorned the sleeves and collar, charms and accessories on the belts and for hair, little bells that chimed. The whole outfit looked like something straight out of a feudal fairytale. If Horokeu wore this, he’d look like a prince from another world. </p><p>“Hmm… we could probably find a buyer for the ornaments, but-“ There was hesitation in Yoh’s frown and their eyes met. “Horohoro, this kimono is beautiful. I’ve not seen anything quite like it. Whoever made it clearly had you in mind. Why would you-“</p><p>“<em>Happiness, sadness, yearning and hatred.<br/>
</em><em>Destiny is scattered,<br/>
</em><em>Undone by pride<br/>
</em><em>A promise shaken and broken.</em></p><p>
  <em> Rain falls on izayoi.<br/>
</em>
</p><p><em>Living souls.<br/>
</em> <em>Common souls,<br/>
</em> <em>Sing.</em></p><p><em> Life from death.<br/>
</em> <em>This world is sorrowful, yet exquisite…”</em></p><p>Long, dark brown hair trailed after a figure, who descended the second floor stairs, dyed almost red from the sunlight that bounced off it, framed a sharp and elegant face that smiled more than dreamed. If Yoh’s eyes were like warm embers, this man’s were like burning coal – they fell upon their target, star earrings clinking as he came to a stop, and slid shut in a disarming feline smirk. </p><p>“I’m afraid the value of that garment cannot be measured by numbers and yen alone, little wolf. It’ll be in your best interest to keep it. Perhaps for a rainy day.”</p><p>The Ainu suppressed an eye-roll, though not nearly as dramatic as the other’s entrance. “And how would you know what’s best for me, Hao?” he asked, turning away from a smiling Yoh, while the elder giggled. </p><p>“Why, I’m a fortune-teller.” And Hao closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, molten eyes narrowed in a teasing leer, long graceful fingers already tracing the smooth curve of a pale jaw. “I know everything about you.”</p><p>Horokeu gulped and took at least ten steps back. The brothers laughed in perfect synch and he was struck by an eerie sense of déjà vu, the kind from horror movies when you saw a ghost in the mirror and thought it was you, blinked, and then it was gone; two images merged into one with smiles overlapping. </p><p>The thing about twins, namely identical twins, was that they always looked alike. From their hair to the shape of their eyes, the quirks of their lips and the way they stood, the kaleidoscope of emotions that shaped distinct facial expressions. Of course, there were some nuances; after all, no two people, even twins, were exactly the same and this was often posited through personality and experiences. However, this wasn’t the case for Hao and Yoh – at least, not in Horokeu’s eyes, because when he talked and joked with them, what he essentially saw were two halves of a soul with a distinct, unified nature. It was a unique phenomenon. The Asakura twins were two sides of the same coin, unpolished yet promising. And like its murky surface, their true thoughts and intentions were as muddy and suspect as a rolling bog, a rippling reflection in the water, uncanny and obscure. </p><p>It was plain to everyone who saw them: Hao and Yoh lived blithe, carefree lives free of responsibility and consequence for whatever they chose to do, and were smiley from sunrise to sunset. They were happy. They were content. But there was a certain loneliness about them, the kind that was easily evaded through wide smiles that never quite reached their eyes, peels of laughter that never truly resonated in their chests, and Horokeu knew it all too well. It wasn’t his business to care, but he often wondered if being heirs of nobility left the brothers outcasted with little to no friends, save each other. What made them rich also made them poor. In a sense, it didn’t make them all that different from him and Pirika.</p><p>“If you’re ok with just the ornaments, we can take them for about ¥400,000–“</p><p>“Yoh! The number 4 is bad luck. You’ll curse us and our client! We’ll take it for ¥588,888.”</p><p>“Aha! Isn’t that great, Horohoro? You get more money!”</p><p>Horokeu suppressed another sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. That really, <em>really</em> wasn’t the point here. </p><p>“Oy, I gotta tell you two something,” he interrupted when it became too painful to watch, and the twins put down their pen and cheque book to stare questionably at him. “Look, I appreciate all you’ve done. You really helped a guy out. But, uh, I don’t think that’s how you run a pawn shop…”</p><p>While he walked away with fuller pockets, the Asakuras walked back into an even fuller house; and although the aspect of more material to tinker and mess around with filled the brothers with immeasurable joy, their accounts bled another story and he wouldn’t be able to live it down if their parents kicked them out of Tokyo for their stupidity. </p><p>“Ah, I knew we didn’t light enough incense-“</p><p>He bonked Hao on the head. Hard. </p><p>“I said ‘pawn shop’, not a freaky cult gathering!” He left the older Asakura to nurse his growing bump in misery. Meanwhile, he had Yoh’s full attention. </p><p>“It’s not?”  Yoh echoed dumbly. </p><p>“<em>No!” </em>Horokeu dragged a palm down his face and groaned when all he got was a blank, vacant stare for his troubles. Why did he even bother? “I just… I don’t know, aren’t you supposed to find a buyer first? Sell it at a profit, then give me whatever the hell amount makes sense. You don’t just pay a guy upfront like that! Besides, I’m pretty sure you’re giving me way more than what my shit’s worth.”</p><p>Now this made Yoh frown, confused. “I don’t understand… aren’t <em>you</em> the one who needs the money quickly? It’s for your sister, right?”</p><p>“Y-yeah, but…”  He scratched the back of his head and struggled to find the right words to say, the pout on his lips a guilty one. “It’s hardly fair to you guys. You’re trying to make an honest living here, and I feel like I’m stealing from your family. It’s not right.”</p><p>“You barely know us, little wolf,” interrupted Hao, an eyebrow quirked sharply, bemused. “We’re practically strangers, yet you falter over the thought of our burdens in place of yours?”</p><p>“But-“ and at this, the Ainu looked down at his feet, dejected; a complicated whirlwind of emotions on his face, heart on his sleeve “-it… it’s not right,” he finished lamely, knew he was repeating himself, but had no words to convey the foolishness of his unfounded sympathy and shame; of how right Hao was; how weak he sounded against the echoes of a harsh world that pushed him to survive. </p><p>“It’s not right.”</p><p>It was Yoh who flashed him an easy smile, hands cradled behind his neck. The younger Ainu didn’t need to go on; he understood and was grateful for the sentiment. </p><p>“It’s fine, isn’t it?” And the chair he sat on creaked and tipped precariously under his weight when he leaned back, balanced on its hind legs. “Ani and I aren’t in any hurry to earn money, and you clearly need it more than we do. Whoever’s been sending you all these gifts knows it too and obviously cares a lot about you, Horohoro. And,” he paused, gaze soft and perceptive as he took in the blue-haired boy’s wide-eyed modesty, “I can kinda understand why.”</p><p>“<em>What</em> do you understand exactly?” Horokeu had wanted to say, and his thoughts tilted in a strange way as he blushed, his brain finally catching up to Yoh’s implications, his fingers tugging at his too-tight collar. Tao Ren, caring about <em>him</em><b>. </b></p><p>In the end, he decided to just leave it at that – Yoh didn’t need to know more than his job and poor management skills entailed, neither was he particularly keen on addressing the topic of Tao Ren. But when Horokeu finally looked up, he realised with a sudden embarrassment that he had been avoiding the twins’ knowing smirks, something about the looks in their eyes, off. He could almost feel the tension. They seemed to know something. Something he in his darndest mind couldn’t quite place, and like the knots in one’s hair, grew increasingly tangled the more he forced his fingers through. </p><p>So, when the older Asakura handed him a business card with the slanted words ‘Door Repair Service’ printed on the front, Hao’s gesture was so stupid that it confused him. </p><p>“... I don’t need to fix my door.”</p><p>Chuckling in that mysterious way he always did, Hao ignored the Ainu, signed the cheque and ripped it from the booklet, folded it, then tucked it into Horokeu’s hoodie pocket with a wink.</p><p>“Then you should open it when someone knocks, don’t you think?”</p><p>“Is… he expecting me to answer that?” Horokeu turned helplessly to Yoh, his expression a long-suffering one. He didn’t even want to pretend that he understood the bogus fortune-teller. At least he could count on the younger twin being significantly less weird–</p><p>“You should try asking, ‘Who’s there?’’ Horohoro.” And <em>maybe</em> Yoh’s serious face freaked him out more than his brother. “You never know if it’ll be the last thing you’d ever get to say…”</p><p>Horokeu was already three steps out the door before the brothers could even laugh, cursing them as he cleaved through the busy streets. At some point, the white kimono in his grip had become heavier, the gleam of silky fabric and silver-blue embroidery a constant reminder of a life that was mocking him, of things that were beyond his control and the people that it pulled close – like intricate threads of a spider’s web; spinning, converging, enticing. He could have ignored Tao Ren’s letters.</p><p>He <em>could</em> have.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He couldn’t ignore Tao Ren’s letters no matter how hard he tried.</p><p>Even though it was a quarter to midnight and he ought to be packing for his trip in the next couple of hours, thereby not physically being around to receive any form of mail in the coming weeks and definitely <em>not </em>entertain any of Tao Ren’s letters; he still thought of him. As infuriating, sickening and utterly senseless as it sounded, Horokeu found himself waiting for a letter that would never come and therefore, bringing him back to his fast-growing problem: unable to ignore the man’s letters <em>without</em> there being an actual letter to bother about in the first place. Not thinking about it <em>made</em> him think about it even more. The silence made him anxious. And before he knew it, he began to wonder if the elusive art collector would miss him while he was gone. </p><p>‘Stupid, stupid,’ he thought, as he folded a set of thermal wear and placed it in his luggage, all brand new purchases he could now afford thanks to– ‘Ah, here we go again.’  It was driving him <em>insane</em><b>. </b>There was really no point dancing around the issue any further. He needed to talk to Tao Ren, to <em>see</em> him. </p><p>And maybe, he mused to himself as his fingers traced the cool silk and hand-stitched patterns of the man’s latest gift to him, finally find out what exactly Ren saw in him that justified all this effort, time and painstaking attention.</p><p>He brought the kimono close and took a whiff. Ashes. The entire garment smelt of ash and the faintest hint of flowers; of what kind he didn’t actually know. Did Tao Ren smell like that? Perhaps he was reading too much into it, but after hearing his sister’s story and comparing it to the words in the letters, he couldn’t help but feel that it suited him perfectly. </p><p>“I must be out of my mind,” he muttered, pink dusting his cheeks as he packed the kimono into his luggage, tried his hardest not to think about the connotations behind his actions. The fault was entirely on Hao and Yoh of course. They should’ve just taken the damn thing off his hands, so he wouldn’t have something to remind him of his growing affliction. </p><p>Still, he had outgrown his old hunting robe years ago, and it <em>would</em> be nice to wear something befitting his heritage once he was back in his homeland. It would certainly make his mother’s spirit smile and give his father a cardiac arrest if the old man wasn’t already dead. </p><p>
  <em> Speaking of the dead… </em>
</p><p>His mind and eyes wandered to his <em>ikupasuy </em>sitting idly atop a table (the only one he could squeeze into the tiny space of their apartment) next to a stack of letters – the very ones that demanded possession of said prayer stick and his yielding cooperation; perhaps the main reason he hesitated following up with the Chinese art collector in the first place. It wasn’t so much the sentimental value of the heirloom than the mystery: what in God’s name did Tao Ren and his family <em>want</em> with it? As far as he was concerned, that thing was useless. It did nothing to protect his parents and tribe then, and it certainly failed to bless him and Pirika now. And even if Ren wanted the <em>ikupasuy </em>as badly as his letters implied, why bother trying to win him over as well? What was the fucking point? Why go through all the trouble and cordiality? What the hell was he playing at?</p><p>The weight of the day pressed into him, and Horokeu’s shoulders sagged for a moment, one hand going up to his forehead and dragging on his headband, making it slack. City lights banded his dark apartment room, landed on him.</p><p>“Why would you look at me?”</p><p><em> ‘My dearest Horokeu, you don’t know who I am, but you will in time.’ </em> With a final tug, the knot opened, and he let the fabric slide through his fingers, down to the futon, freed his hair which fell forward to frame his face. His socks were next. He tossed them into some corner, unthinking. <em> ‘For an orphaned village boy from the North with nothing to his name, you sure have a knack for capturing my attention…’ </em></p><p>“Why can’t I stop thinking about you?”</p><p>Pulling his hoodie off his shoulders and kicking off his jeans, he sank into the empty futon, the sudden contact of the cool sheets against his bare skin switching off some switch deep in his brain. All he had on was a pair of boxers; it was cold outside, but they finally owned a heater. <em> ‘Yours sincerely, Tao Ren.’ </em>He closed his eyes as those soft words grabbed him. Ren never actually spoke them, but he could pretend. </p><p><em> Yours, </em>echoed his sleep-fogged brain, and he felt himself grin into the pillow–</p><p>Until somebody knocked on the door.</p><p>It started with a series of polite raps delivered swiftly after each other, and when Horokeu finally mustered enough willpower to push himself upright, blurry eyes trained on the old wood across the room, the knocks evolved into harsh, impatient thumps. <em>What the hell? </em>He was half-tempted to fall back asleep and just ignore them. If Pirika had enough energy to run around town on some last minute shopping errands at midnight, then she could jolly well open the damn door herself. But then he realised she had her own key and suddenly, none of <em>that</em> made any sense. Moreover, he never got visitors at midnight; in fact, he never had visitors at all. </p><p>It made him both annoyed and confused as he stood at the door, glaring at the offending knob as he reached for it to tell the inconsiderate bastard on the other side to <em>screw off</em> and come back tomorrow. But, like flicking on a light switch in the dark, something in his head clicked, and the chilling familiarity of his current situation had his hand stopping mere inches from the door knob, the twins’ warnings from earlier that day a resonant ringing in his ears. It was <em>late</em><b>. </b>There was an <em>unwanted visitor</em><b>. </b>It was too creepy to be a coincidence; and at that moment, he <em>really</em> didn’t want to open the door.</p><p>The louder his thoughts and fears grew, so did the thump-thumping from the other side; until they became violent banging that shook up the old wood, each hit threatening to break it down, insistent. <em>Angry. </em>And then, with a final bang, the door flew clean off its hinges, and Horokeu was fortunate enough to throw himself aside before it smacked him in the face and sent him on a one-way trip to the hospital. </p><p>“What the <em> fuck…?” </em></p><p>When Horokeu tried to make his eyes focus again, he was greeted with the image of a tall, imposing man wearing a black trenchcoat, a gentleman’s suit, black leather gloves and heeled boots shined to perfection. Like a shadow clothed in the swirling darkness around him, most of his body was concealed, save long, flowing purple hair; a few locks pinned up and adorned his head like a crown. They framed a startlingly handsome face made indignant by the harsh lines and sharp angles of a deep, ruthless scowl. </p><p>“For someone without a job, you’re surprisingly preoccupied.” The man stepped closer until he was glaring down at the Ainu, as if his very presence offended him greatly; but Horokeu was too distracted by a set of glowing golden eyes to sense the impending danger. “All my gifts, yet you couldn’t even afford the time with one lousy reply.” His gaze dropped as he raked the Ainu’s body appreciatively, the displeasure quickly shifting into an amused smirk. “Although, it appears I chose a most inappropriate time to introduce myself.”</p><p>It took Horokeu approximately 3.5 seconds to realise he was in his underwear, and his hands instinctively moved to his front in a bid to salvage whatever dignity remained, red all over. There were only so many emotions he could experience at once – confusion, disorientation, fatigue, embarrassment, and fear suddenly joined by one that was entirely incompatible and <em>definitely</em> not helpful, his visitor hooking one finger under his chin and bringing their faces close. Immediately, the thick scent of ashes and flowers filled his nose, sent alarm bells ringing. As someone who spent most of his life surviving, Horokeu knew when to retreat.</p><p>He picked an easy question.</p><p>“Are you… Tao Ren?”</p><p>The slap that came across his face caused his head to snap sharply to the side and his cheek to smart. Tears jumped to his eyes and he reached up to touch his swelling face, but the shock and pain quickly faded into anger, and he met Ren’s cold glare with one of his own. </p><p>“The hell is your problem?!”</p><p>The Chinese looked far from pleased. </p><p>“I do not recall giving you the permission to address me so casually,” Ren said, his voice low and dripping with venom. Gone was the charming gentleman from the letters, and in his place stood a dangerous specter, powerful and unpredictable. He gripped Horokeu’s chin tightly in his gloved hand and forced the Ainu’s gaze on him. “You will call me Master or Sir, my dearest Horokeu. Nothing less, as long as you remain under my care and protection.”</p><p>“And I don’t recall giving <em>you</em> permission to break into my house,” Horokeu retaliated, the snarl on his face distantly reminding Ren of a dog, and he yanked his chin away, the last sentence distracting him from Ren’s anger and growing impatience. “So, what’s this about my ‘care and protection’? You mean those gifts? You’ve been helping me, right?”</p><p>At this, Ren’s expression softened into one of cool impassiveness as he respectfully stepped away. </p><p>“It seems you have not fully comprehended the gravity of your situation, so I’ll be direct,” he paused to fix Horokeu with a hard golden stare. “I own you, every inch of you — your life, that body, the clothes you wear and the people you love. The only reason you still have this sorry roof over your head is because <b>I </b>paid for it. The only reason you and your sister aren’t starving on the streets is because of <em>my</em> money. And as long as I’m alive, <em>nobody</em> is going to give Usui Horokeu a job, because the only one who has a right to your future is <em>me.</em>”</p><p>His words paralyzed Horokeu, and confusion tore through his mind like a hurricane. All those precious gifts; kind words wrapped in parchment and wax; saving Pirika — none of that was real. Ren just wanted a puppy to play with, and like a hopeless idiot, he put the collar on himself and held onto the leash. That painful clarity hurt more than the slap to the face; and suddenly, it didn’t matter anymore that he was talking to Tao Ren in his underwear, because any trace of shame he had left was torn from him the moment Ren broke his heart. </p><p>“So <em>you’re</em> the reason I can’t get hired! You want to keep me in your debt.”</p><p>Ren smiled then, but the gesture was anything but kind. “Excellent, Horokeu. It seems you are not as inept as society thinks,” he commended. “But to follow up on your comment, how long that will last is entirely up to you…”</p><p>He trailed off and Horokeu followed the path of his gaze, landing on the <em> ikupasuy </em> on the table. For a moment, neither men spoke or moved, the gears in their heads turning — calculating, evaluating. And then, like a tightly coiled spring, they lunged forward, scrambled for the very object that tied their fates together. It was Horokeu who grabbed it first and he pulled his <em> ikupasuy </em>protectively against his chest. But Ren was undeterred, the fierce glint in his eyes testimony to his desperation, and the moment his fingers wrapped around the prayer stick, something inside Horokeu snapped, the temperature dipped dangerously, and he forced Ren back with a scream. </p><p>“<em>STAY AWAY FROM ME!” </em></p><p>Except, it wasn’t actually him that did the damage. </p><p>The Chinese stumbled backwards, paused, and slowly lifted his right hand up to his face. The entire leather glove and his hand along with it was encased in a layer of ice, frozen solid. He studied it calmly without a word, his stoic expression giving nothing away, while Horokeu trembled next to him, openly gaped. </p><p><em>Holy shit — </em>What… what the hell just happened? Was that… ice? Had he done that? But how was this possible? Was this a dream? Some twisted fantasy starring him and Ren that his brain had conjured up in a moment of weakness and fatigue? It had to be. He had his <em>ikupasuy </em>for <em>years</em> and it never once did anything like <em>that</em> before… What the fuck should he do? Light a stove? Call the hospital? It looked serious-</p><p>And then Ren simply tensed his muscles, clenched his hand into a fist, and Horokeu watched in both surprise and horror as the ice broke apart with a loud ‘crack’ and fell to the floor like shards of glass. Frost dusted the glove’s surface and Ren casually brushed it off with a contemplative frown on his face, as if he was studying the results of a simple experiment instead of the possibility of a permanent injury. Meanwhile, Horokeu’s mind was reeling; his fear and confusion spiked the more he stared. <em>That</em> wasn’t normal. <em>Ren</em> wasn’t normal. Any other person who dared try a stunt like that would surely have their fingers broken clean off; in fact, the entire appendage would have been dead! And here the guy stood, right as rain, like he hadn’t actually gotten his hand frozen off in the last five seconds. </p><p>Something told Horokeu that Tao Ren was no ordinary art collector. </p><p>“S-Sorry…”</p><p>Ren’s gaze fell on the <em> ikupasuy </em>still clutched in the Ainu’s hands. </p><p>“... Interesting,” he said, and his eyes moved up to Horokeu’s pale, terrified face. “Now then-“ And faster than Horokeu could blink, Ren knocked the <em> ikupasuy </em>out of his grip and pinned him onto the futon “-let’s talk business.”</p><p>The only sounds that filled the apartment were their breathing; one quiet and even, the other harsh and irregular. Piercing gold stared down wide, nervous cerulean with all the imposing force of a storm. The <em> ikupasuy </em>had slid into some corner from their brief tussle and without anything to use as leverage against Ren, Horokeu felt utterly defenseless. </p><p>“W-What do you want from me?”  he whispered, shaking in the man’s steel hold, unwilling to look away least Ren pulled a fast one, recalled how effortlessly he had broken the ice around his hand and could just as easily break his neck. “Why is this happening? ”</p><p>“You know very well what I want, Horokeu.” And his grip around the Ainu’s wrists tightened in warning when the latter started to struggle. A threat hissed between clenched teeth stilled long limbs that attempted to kick out under him, and Ren pinned them between his knees, leaned over his prey and took in the bare alabaster skin spread so beautifully beneath him. “So, what is your answer?”</p><p>“If you think I’d just hand over my tribe’s heirloom without a fight, you’re stupider than you look,” Horokeu replied with a defiant glare and tried arching his body to throw Ren off, but all that did was exacerbate his compromised position when he accidentally rubbed his thinly-clothed groin against Ren’s. The reaction was immediate: Horokeu froze, mortified; the deep blush spreading from his cheeks to the rest of his body in seconds. Tao Ren was… <em>warm.</em> He… he’d felt that. </p><p>Chuckling, the Chinese took advantage of his embarrassment and pressed closer. </p><p>“Full of surprises, aren’t you?” He shifted his hips and was rewarded with a quiet gasp. “But if that <em> ikupasuy </em>was all I was after, then believe me, I would already have it and you would be dead.”  He changed his grip and held both of Horokeu’s wrists in one hand, while the other trailed a slow, sensual path down the Ainu’s arm to stop at the area just above his rapidly beating heart. He pressed down with his fingers and Horokeu yelped. “No, my dearest Horokeu. You were always part of the deal.”</p><p>“I’m not your property, Ren.” And Horokeu meant it, wished to prove his conviction (or foolish stubbornness) through each word, goaded Ren with the blatant use of his last name <em>knowing</em> it would make the arrogant bastard mad, get a reaction. But he was almost disappointed when nothing happened; instead, Ren <em>hummed</em> and flashed him a wide, cruel smirk.</p><p>“Oh, but I think you are,” he leered, and his eyes darted momentarily to something above the Ainu’s head. Horokeu paused, confused and unsure at first, until he felt fingers nudge at a certain bangle around his wrist and he wished the world would just swallow him whole, so he wouldn’t have to deal with his own embarrassment under Ren’s scrutiny and smug-ass grin. </p><p>Fuck, he should’ve taken it off. </p><p>“You kept it,” Ren observed and took in the details of his old blue jade bangle, marveled appreciatively at how it looked around Horokeu’s wrist — like it was meant to be there, meant to be his. “I never took you for a jewelry person.” </p><p>“It… It’s not that! You gave me two and… and the other one was more valuable, so I pawned that off. But then you kept sending more gifts, and I already had more than enough money and…” Horokeu closed his eyes, knew he was rambling as he desperately fought down his blush. “I like blue.”  But even he knew how pathetic his excuses sounded. </p><p>Golden eyes blinked once, before its owner smiled slowly. “You desire me.”</p><p>Horokeu was redder then, than he had ever been in his entire life. </p><p>“N-No! That’s not—“</p><p>“Ah, but you do,” Ren said, and leaned in to press his nose against the crook of the other’s neck. “I know you do-“ he inhaled deeply and felt the pulse beneath the pale skin quicken “-I can taste it.”</p><p>Horokeu shuddered and he felt Ren smirk against his skin. <em> Too hot. Too close. </em>He almost gave in, drowned in the heat of Tao Ren’s smoldering stare and humiliating words; but he remembered the man’s cruelty and he was nobody’s prisoner, no matter how alluring his chains and cage appeared. </p><p>“Don’t flatter yourself, bastard.”</p><p>Ren chuckled, and one hand came up to stroke his cheek. </p><p>“Horokeu…” came the hypnotic voice as it seemed to wrap around him. “My dearest Horokeu…” A gloved hand cupped his face, and Horokeu started when he realised Ren had released his wrists a long time ago. However, before he could think about what <em>that</em> meant, Ren had already risen to his feet and was making his way towards the door (or where it had been). </p><p>He didn’t even take the <em> ikupasuy. </em></p><p>Horokeu struggled to sit up. “W-Wait! You still didn’t answer my question.” He gripped the futon sheets so hard, his knuckles turned white. “What do you want from me? Who are you really?”</p><p>Ren paused outside the doorway, but didn’t turn around. “Whether or not I answer you, depends on your ability to answer my next question.” He inclined his head to the night sky above, gaze cold and unfeeling as he took in the rolling black clouds and said, “Tell me, Horokeu. What happens when it rains?”</p><p>
  <em> Huh? </em>
</p><p>The question was so sudden, it completely blindsided him. For a brief moment, Horokeu considered waiting, but when Ren failed to supply any further explanation, he figured his day had been weird enough and there was no harm humoring the guy.</p><p>“Uh… you get wet?” </p><p>The silence was so thick, he feared he accidentally killed Ren with his stupidity. </p><p>“... I’ve seen enough tonight,” the Chinese finally said, and Horokeu could practically <em>see </em> the condescension on his face without having to actually look at it. “Perhaps I was a little too forward with the <em> Kamuy </em>in that stick. She seems quite attached to you, though I fail to understand why.” He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, placed it between his lips and lit it. Wisps of smoke danced in the air, languid and graceful. “Have a good trip.”</p><p>With that, Ren turned a corner and was gone. Horokeu continued to stare at the spot he once stood, a million questions and thoughts colliding painfully in his skull. A <em> Kamuy? </em> <em>She?</em> His <em> ikupasuy </em> was… <em> alive? </em>Everything about today didn’t make sense; Tao Ren wasn’t the sort of person he expected; and with only a few more hours until he had to wake up to catch his train to Hokkaido, there was only one logical conclusion. </p><p>He took out the business card he received from Hao, dialed the number on it, and brought his cellphone up to his ear with a sigh. </p><p>“Hey… Is this the 24-hour door repair service?”</p><p>So much for the start of a peaceful vacation. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> To be continued... </em>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Glossary/lore:</p><p>Ani – an informal and polite way of addressing one’s older brother.</p><p>Ao-andon - a yokai born out of the fears of humans and assumes the form of a blue man or woman in a white/blue kimono, typically surrounded by an eerie blue light. During the Edo period, a popular activity was to host parties called ‘hyakumonogatari kaidankai‘, where participants/guests would light and place candles inside a hundred blue paper lanterns called ‘andon’ and tell a hundred ghost stories. As each story gets progressively scarier, a candle would be snuffed out. It is said that during these sessions, as the room grows darker, an Ao-andon would appear from the glow of the final lantern to attack the participants.</p><p>*I’ll be dabbling into Japanese folklore for this story, so please look out for footnotes at the end of each chapter.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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